


A Mighty Fine Life

by webcomix



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Newsies (1992)
Genre: 1890s, Brick references galore, Crossover, Gen, Historical, No Romance, repost from ffn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-19 15:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9447662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcomix/pseuds/webcomix
Summary: Nobody carries the banner quite like the vivacious smart-aleck Gavroche, or as he is known to his fellow newsies, Urchin. Featuring our beloved newsboys as well as our favourite student revolutionaries, and maybe even an ex-convict or two.This is a repost from my FFN account with very minor edits. Bringing it here because damn, I've always been proud of this one.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Les Miserables belongs to Victor Hugo.  
> Newsies belongs to Walt Disney Pictures. Songs by Alan Menken and Jack Feldman.

_SUMMER 1898_

Gavroche was rudely awoken from his streetside slumber by a sharp poke in the ribs. He rolled over to glare at the two boys grinning down at him, one of them holding the offending wooden stick.

"Hey, Urchin!" Pie Eater gleefully leaned against the rough brick wall. "Ya missed breakfast again today!"

Gavroche sighed and with the aid of Bumlets's stick, hauled himself up to his feet. "Can't youse guys tell me when they get 'ere?"

Bumlets handed him a scrap of bread. "But we never know where you are! Another reason why you should stay with us in the lodging house, y'know."

The three newsboys began trotting off down the street. Gavroche swallowed the small morsel and defiantly shook his shaggy hair out of his eyes.

"Nah, I'm perfectly fine on me own, thank you very much…anyway, I gots my own family, don't I?"

"Like you actually live wiv 'em!" Pie Eater hooted. Gavroche eyed him irritably while Bumlets, being his usual cheerful and energetic self, skipped ahead of them, trailing his stick along the cast-iron fences. All three ignored the scathing looks other pedestrians, well-groomed gentlemen and ladies alike, shot them as they strolled down the dusty streets of New York City.

Soon enough, they found themselves in line with all the other newsboys, waiting to buy their newspapers. Gavroche leaned over the wooden platform precariously, sticking his head into the tight circle of boys below.

"Oi, Skitts!" He called out to the frowning youth across from him. "How much are ya thinkin' of losin' today, huh?"

"Go soak yer head," retorted Skittery. Racetrack, who was situated directly below Gavroche, took a long drag on his cigar before selecting another card to toss on the small pile.

"Oooh, nice straight you got there, Race."

The short Italian scowled and immediately slapped Gavroche's cheek with the back of his hand. "Shaddup, will ya! I'm tryin' to play a game here!"

"And it's your turn. Stop screwing about," complained a newsboy standing behind him. Gavroche stomped up to the counter, drawing himself up to his full height. It wasn't much, but it was all he could afford to be proud of.

"Hiya, Mr. Wease. Fifty papes." He slammed a coin down with an air of dignified finality. The heavyset man snorted with derision, but handed him the pile. Gavroche hefted them onto his shoulder and turned to leave – colliding with another person in the process.

"Ho! Watch where you're goin', ya big…" Gavroche struggled with the newspapers before glancing up. "Oh hey, Cowboy!"

"How ya doin', Urchin?" Jack's strong accent twisted the word into 'oi-chin.' Gavroche beamed. He loved talking to their fearless and charismatic leader. Jacky-boy never had any extra papers lying around at the end of the day. He was a salesman through and through, and was man enough to even bother learning the names of all the Manhattan newsies.

"Not bad at all! Thinkin' about going down to that drinkin' spot down in da Village with all them university students. Heard they like readin' the news nowadays."

"Aw, yeah? Well, tell 'em Jack Kelly said hello." Jack readjusted the hat that provided his nickname-sake. "How's your sisters doin' too?"

"Ehh, nuttin' new, I guess. 'Zelma's now a working girl, sewing aprons or somethin' like that. 'Ponine, she's been the same, though," Gavroche replied. A touch of solemnity came into his voice. "I gotta find her today. She's been running around without telling anyone anything that's going on, an' so me ma's getting even more crabby and not like me dad's gonna do anything about it…"

Jack nodded and clapped the younger lad on the shoulder heartily. "Atta boy, Urch. Good to know that we got guys like youse who's gonna take care of the ladies." With that, he lifted up his own stack of newspapers and wandered off to begin another day of work.

Gavroche watched him stride away in deep admiration. Other newsboys, all shouting, jeering, and laughing carelessly, jostled past him to further infect the streets of Manhattan. One blond with a patch over his eye sang loudly, an arm slung over his curly-haired friend's shoulders.

 _Ain't it a fine life,_  
_Carryin' the banner through it all?_  
 _A mighty fine life,_  
 _Carryin' the banner tough an' tall!_  
 _Every mornin',_  
 _We go where we wishes,_  
 _We's as free as fishes,_  
 _Sure beats washing dishes -_  
 _What a fine life!_  
 _Carryin' the banner, home free all!_

Gavroche crept away from the hyper crowd, opting to scurry down side alleys. Dodging streetcars and carriages, he finally emerged into a less congested but equally lively street. Men leaned against fire escape railings, smoking cigarettes as vendors hawked their wares loudly, attracting mothers with small children still clutching their skirts. Students with books in front of them and ambition in their eyes lounged in the front patios of bistros, beckoning to the squat, immaculately combed waiters who hurried forward with more cognac. It was directly in the doorway of one of these where Gavroche planted himself.

"Extry, extry!" he cried shrilly. "American soldiers win great battle at San Juan! Teddy Roosevelt leads troops to victory!"

A few people looked up with vague interest, and one man tossed him a penny in exchange for a paper. But the biggest thing that happened was one of the waiters huffing towards him with an angry scowl.

"Young devil!" he exclaimed. "Out! Don't you come in here and dirty my floors. I just swept them this morning."

Gavroche imitated the same facial expression, standing his ground. "Ya got a complaint ta make, mister?"

"I'm complaining about you!"

"Sorry, no mo' complaints today. The office is closed."

But the waiter had managed to shoo the unkempt boy back into the boiling heat. Most other New Yorkers hurried past, eager to get away from the sun and the dust of the streets. Gavroche took a moment to rest. He plopped down onto the curb, fanning himself with his cap.

"Awful day for sellin', I knows it."

His eyes flitted over to the stack of black and white papers next to him. His chest filled with regret. Perhaps he should only have taken twenty instead. Nobody cared for the news in this weather. Ruefully, Gavroche sighed and rested his chin in one ink-stained hand, not noticing someone approaching him from behind.

"Excuse me."

Gavroche turned to see a tall young man staring down at him. Obviously a student, he was perhaps in his early twenties. Several young ladies walking past turned their chins and giggled under their parasols, but to no avail – those pale blue eyes burned with an intensity for something far more noble than silly romances. Gavroche stared openly at the stern face framed by blond locks that burned gold in the sunlight.

"Buy one of me papes, sir?" Gavroche held up a copy, slapping on his most winning smile. This, at least on the exterior, did nothing to stir the man's heart. He simply stood back, critically observing the newsboy up and down. For a few seconds, neither said a word.

Gavroche frowned. What an odd person. "Welp, mister, if yer not interested in the news, I best be on me way…"

He yelped indignantly when the young man took him firmly by the shoulders and hoisted him to his feet. Then gaped in amazement as the man scooped up his stack of newspapers.

"Please spare us a moment of your time. It would greatly help our cause if you could speak with us for a moment. Come this way."  Without waiting for a reply - none of these were phrased as questions, anyway - the young man headed towards a different restaurant, this time the smaller and less ornate café on the corner. Upon reaching the door, he turned around and waited expectantly.

Gavroche blinked with disbelief. He had no idea what on earth was going on, but this fop had his only source of income. His newspapers. After a few seconds of hesitation, he warily followed him into the dim restaurant.


	2. Chapter 2

Inside, restaurant patrons paused their luncheons to watch a dignified youth leading the scruffy street child between the tables. Gavroche found himself walking through a small door and quickly realized he was in a back room full of young men of about the same age. They were scattered around the space, sitting and standing, laughing loudly or murmuring earnestly, but all with the general atmosphere of crackling wit and sophistication. A fashionable type turned, raising one eyebrow at the newcomers.

"What's this, Enjolras? Brought another _representative of the people_ to declaim his sorrows to us?"

"Knock it off, Courfeyrac." One of the seated glanced up from where he was fervently writing in a book. "Firsthand accounts are instrumental for our case."

"Indeed," somebody else spoke up. He looked no older than twenty-two, although his hair was thinning to the point of becoming nearly completely bald. "It's true that we have barely even touched upon the subject of child labour yet."

A figure in one of the dark corners stirred. "Well! I personally believe that a firsthand account of wine is instrumental for MY case!" He lifted a bottle in mock salute. Enjolras frowned.

"Grantaire, it's hardly noon."

"All the more reason to while the way this dreary time," Grantaire drawled back, taking a swig from his bottle. Gavroche swallowed nervously as Enjolras nudged him towards a seat. The writer smiled at him from across the table.

"My name is Combeferre, and we are the Friends of the ABC. Do you mind us conducting a short interview?"

Gavroche snatched up his stack of papers. Enjolras had carelessly tossed them on a nearby chair. "Only if youse guys buy off a pape from me!"

He nearly jumped as a loud, booming guffaw burst out from behind him. A tall, brawny man with sideburns grinned down at him.

"By Hercules, where'd you find this one, Enjolras? A right little salesman, I see. It's working while the sun still shines, innit?" He reached over to grab a newspaper, dropping a penny onto the tabletop in return. "There, a fair exchange from one worker to another."

Another laugh rang out as another one of the youths also took one. In comparison, he was lithe and wiry, with quick, slender fingers that snatched up the paper.  "If you're going to put it that way, Bahorel, I better show my solidarity as well!"

"Speaking of which, aren't you going to be late? Your break ends in about three minutes."

"Goodness, you're right." The young man leaped up, and Gavroche noticed the bright paint stains down his smock. "I'll see you all later tonight!"

Combeferre nodded as Gavroche watched him stride out the door. "Feuilly is an artisan. He's the one who's brought up the discussion of child labour to the rest of us, since he often sees those your age working when he needs to go to the millinery district."

"Yes. This brings us to the current situation." Enjolras seated himself across from the newsboy. "What is your name? How long have you been selling newspapers, and why? What is your home life like? Do you realize that it is illegal for factories to employ children below the age of fourteen? How do you theorize the reasoning for its existence, though in direct aversion to the law?"

"Enjolras, take it easy." A voice emerged from the small table against the window, where two men were seated. One looked rather pale, and he continually pulled off his round spectacles to polish with a handkerchief – that is, when he wasn't coughing into it. The second - who had just spoken - was lanky and tall, his reddish brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. It made him look refined, rather than scruffy, and reminded Gavroche of the posh young men who strutted about on the streets. However, when he spoke again, his voice was anything but arrogant and pushy.

"He's just a kid. And probably hasn't had anything substantial to eat lately, from the looks of it." The man's eyes softened as he took in Gavroche's ragged and dirty attire. 

Gavroche couldn't help feeling slightly offended at this remark, not being in the mood for being patronized. "Oi, ya bums don't have to baby me," he grunted. "Bein' a newsie ain't no walk in the park, and I got what it takes!"

"We believe you, trust me," said the balding one, waving to a waiter. "Jehan didn't mean anything by it. What about a trade? Have lunch with us, and in return, we'd like you to give us some information."

Gavroche eyed him dubiously as he spoke in a few low tones to the waiter, who simply nodded and left. He then leaned forward, extending a hand. "I'm Lesgles. But some people call me Bossuet."

The newsboy regarded the open palm for a moment. Then, to Lesgles's surprise, Gavroche spat liberally into his own hand before reaching out and giving a firm shake.

Unveiled snorts of laughter ensued as Lesgles was taken aback, slightly startled. The wheezing student offered him his handkerchief.

"Thanks, Joly."

Combeferre picked up his pen again. "So, lad. What's your name?"

"Gavroche. Gavroche Thenardier."

"How long have you been a newsboy?"

"Two years."

"Do you go to school?"

"Naw, used ta before then. Writin' and 'rithmetic ain't gonna do much for me anyway…" his voice trailed off as his eyes widened in amazement. A waiter silently set a plate in front of him. It was a simple meal: a frankfurter inserted into a roll. But to Gavroche, it was a feast. He dug in with relish.

Combeferre pressed forward. "Family?"

"Aw, yeh." The Friends were amused by the child's voracious appetite. "Ma, Pa, Eppy and 'Zelma. Ma an' the girls stay at home an' do some sewing stuff. Workin' on finishing coats," he explained through a full mouth.

"Slow down there, you'll get indigestion," Courfeyrac exclaimed. Enjolras quieted him.

"An' Pa, he's a bastard. Dunno what he does, but he ain't home anytime. Me, I bust out because the crabby shoutin' and all that ain't no healthy place for a youngster like me, eh?"

This last comment elicited a roar of laughter from the men. Enjolras, however, continued to watch him intently, and leaned forward with another question.

"So where do you go?"

"The streets. Well, I gotta sell me papers, don't I?" Gavroche patted the stack next to him. "Don't make a big difference. Sometimes you gotta stay out. Deadlines are bad, still got some papes left at the end so youse stays out 'til past midnight. It's cold an' all, but every bit counts. Better'n going home." He paused to gnaw at the crust of the bread. "The boys tell me to go to the lodging house, but I don't wanna."

"Tell us about the boys."

"What's there t'talk about?" Gavroche tugged his cap off and scratched his head through the dirty, straw-coloured hair. "Most of 'em are like me. Don't wanna go home. Or, they got none. Orphans, y'know? Like Snitch, his folks went after gold in California. But that's been three years. He don't think they're gonna come back no more. But that's okay. We newsies, we tough"

Once he'd gotten going, there was no stopping Gavroche's mouth. The words just poured. "Some of us do got family, though. Take Itey. He got five brothers an' sisters. All of them stay at home and make stuff. The two littlest, Gussie an' Mario, they gotta hide from the cops. They say it's not right for them to work, but you got no choice now, do ya? Itey knows too, so he ran away to be a newsie. They can't help it. Frankie got real sick and they gotta take care of 'im.

"We come from everywheah an' anywheah, we newsies. Wiv Dutchy, he came all de way from Pennsylvania. Worked in the mines for two years. That's why he coughs all the time. An' his eyes, they're not so good. He tol' me that sometimes down there, the dust was so thick y'could hardly see. An' they get in everything. His pants, shirt, hair, eyes, even mouth. So he came up heah, but not so diff'rent in these streets, eh?

"But I said, we's a _tough_ bunch," Gavroche insisted to his captivated audience. "We ain't stupid. We knows how these streets of New York work! You gotta learn fast to survive! Can't stop fer no sick day or laziness. Even Crutchy, everyone think he just does that for a gimmick. Boy got his leg smashed assa pup when he tried to jump the trolley. Rolled right over it. But does he stop? Naw! We got no time for that.

"I guess it'd be right noice livin' up on the Upper East Side wiv 'em fancy-pants in their gloves an' canes, but there ain't no better life. We's as free as we's can be. An' we like a band of brothers. My man Boots got a lotta crap for bein' black... People would even kick 'im when he used ta shine people's shoes, every time he crouched down. There's lotsa things that coulda been woise fer 'im. But afta he join de newsies, we all looks out fer each other. So he know someone got his back. Ain't no other tighter group, y'see.

"An' when we got a good headline and sell a lotta papes, you gots some money left ovah, there ain't nobody to stop a newsie from doin' what he likes! Get ice cream, or see a show at the flickers. Dis whole city, it's ours fer the takin'."

The end of this speech was met with a thoughtful silence. Gavroche returned to his food hungrily. He didn't notice the sad smiles and pitying looks surrounding him – Jean Prouvaire wasn't the only one moved by the young boy's frank account. Enjolras spoke again, but with a slightly softer tone.

"How much do you make each day?"

Gavroche paused, crumbs littering the lower area of his face, before guiltily staring at the still-formidable stack of newspapers on the chair. "Umm. Ken maybe sell thirty or forty on a good day. 'Fits a good headline. But sometimes, not so good…lucky enough to get a dime. Yeah, ya wanna least break even, but the price o' papes is on de up since the war…"

The silence of his listeners finally reached his ears. Discomfort prickling his skin, Gavroche swallowed his last bite hurriedly.

"Hey, it's a war!" He waved his hand about emphatically. "Everythin' goes up! Surely ya students learned about that in yer classes or whatnot, right? See, I might be a newsie but I know a lot of things, I do!"

Satisfied with such a conclusion, he continued munching on his frankfurter sandwich as Enjolras frowned again. "Land of the free and home of the brave, my hat. That statue in the harbour isn't lighting a torch as a welcome to immigrants, but actually leading them to their captivity."

"You see, my young brother," Courfeyrac confided to Gavroche. "Enjolras here will have none other than Lady Liberty as his mistress. He's just nursing a broken heart after she rejected him."

Gavroche found it immensely amusing to see the dignified Enjolras slapping his friend angrily on the arm at that comment.

"But of course, he can always just trot down to the Battery to gaze upon her figure, eh?"

Courfeyrac mimed with his hands. Hearty laughs ricocheted off the walls of the room as Enjolras stewed in his humiliation.


	3. Chapter 3

_Try Bottle Alley, or the harbour._  
_Try Central Park, it's guaranteed._  
 _Try any banker, bum, or barber._  
 _They almost all knows how to read!_

Gavroche repeated this like a chant as he lurched on beneath the unrelenting sun. Ever since leaving the Café Musain, he had jumped right back into work, hawking his wares furiously at any and all persons within earshot. Though grateful for his full stomach, Gavroche was eager to make up for lost time – missing all those people during the meal hour had been a dangerous choice.

Many of the fine gents and stout workingmen of New York City already had a folded daily tucked beneath their arms, so Gavroche chose to heed the second line of the newsie mantra. Doubling back up Seventh Avenue, the tiny businessman ducked into an entrance at the South of Central Park. Unfortunately, his luck didn't change very much as he trekked north, even if the trees provided a slightly less hostile environment for selling. Gavroche turned and with his haughtiest air, strolled away, mimicking the most sophisticated gentleman.

Folks of all sorts were also taking a good afternoon stroll up and down the Mall, from wealthy aristocrats to resting workers to young'uns not much older than Gavroche himself. Spotting a fellow hunched over on a bench to the right, he made a beeline towards him. The sound of the newspapers hitting the wooden planks startled the man out of his stupor.

"Good aftanoon, sir! Buy a pape off a pore street urchin likes me?"

Gavroche affixed his most – or at least, what he considered to be – heartrending expression to his face. The man's head jerked up and turned to stare at the child confusedly. To Gavroche's mild surprise, he was very young, certainly no older than the merry crew he had dined with a few hours earlier. There was barely a wisp of whiskers upon his cheek, nor was his brow too deeply creased, although there certainly was a strange air of melancholy about him: the young man's complete attire, even his cravat, was black. Or so Gavroche felt it should have been, for they were also in the last, desperate measures of repair. The only note of brightness was located in his hands, where a faded notebook and a bizarrely white handkerchief lay.

The man blinked at Gavroche. "Er…Pardon me?"

The newsboy slapped his pile impatiently. "The news! We're winnin' the war, sir! Thanks an' salutes to Teddy Roosevelt! Y'ken read it all heah for one easy penny!"

As he said this, he snuck a closer glimpse of the handkerchief. It had prompted his curiosity, as it was cleaner and in far better shape than the rest of the man's outfit. To his disappointment, it was a very simple piece of cloth, with no embroidery or border. In one corner, he could make out a small monogram: _UF_.

The man stood up, fumbling in his pockets distractedly. "Ohh…I suppose…here."

As he fished a penny from the depths of his wretched coat, the handkerchief fluttered out of his reach. Gavroche reached out to take his money, but the youth gasped.

"No!" He dived to his knees. Gavroche winced, recalling the thinness of the trousers, but the man managed to catch his treasure before it touched the ground. The notebook lay forgotten on the bench.

"Er…your pape, mister?"

The man had his eyes closed and was pressing the handkerchief to his lips, looking every bit the madman. Gavroche, now feeling incredibly unsettled, repeated the question. The man finally broke free of his reverie and hastily accepted his purchase. Blushing brightly, this stranger suddenly turned and walked very quickly away, still clutching the handkerchief with one hand.

Gavroche watched him for a moment, mystified. Quite frankly, he couldn't see what on Earth was so special about a plain white handkerchief. That was when the notebook came back to his attention.

"Oi! Mister! Ya forgots yer book!"

Too late. He had disappeared past the elms. Gavroche seated himself comfortably on the bench (there really was no use in trying to sell at this point), cracked the worn covers open, and began flipping pages.

_To my love, your name remains a mystery. Yet such a face has told me everything I needed to know…_

_Mademoiselle Lanoire, I see a multitude of colours in our future where all is bright and gay…_

_Ursula. The most delicious name. I drink of it deeply, it fills me to the brim…_

_Ignoring the nightingale, I stay awake through the night just to hear the first notes of my Lark…_

"TRIPE," declared Gavroche, slapping the book shut.

Thinking that the sorry chap was already suffering enough and therefore didn't deserve to be ridiculed for such terrible literature, Gavroche tucked the notebook beneath his other arm and went on his way, aiming to chuck the thing away as soon as possible. Unfortunately for him, that would never happen. Just as he strolled out of the gate next to the art museum, his jaw dropped open in amazement.

"'Ponine!" He quickened his pace to grab a fistful of his sister's dirty apron before she could slink away. "Whatter ya doin' all the ways up heah? Ain't youse an' 'Zelma got work ta do?"

She gazed vacantly down at him before tugging her tattered skirt out of his grip and walking away. Gavroche struggled to keep up.

"Go away, Gavroche."

"Not 'til you tells me what ya up to. Here," He hastily began to rummage through his pockets. "Take me nickel an' go see a show. Okay?"

Eponine froze in her tracks, and Gavroche thought he had succeeded in calming his irrational sibling for once. But instead, she pointed at the notebook.

"Whassat?"

"Eh?" He glanced down. "Some ol' fop left it in the park. Full o' crap, I gots ta say."

To his alarm, she lunged towards him.

"That belongs to Mister Marius! Give it 'ere!"

"Hey!" He swung out of the way just in time, snatching his precious cargo out of harm. "Watch me papes!"

It was too late; all the neatly folded issues of the _New York World_ went crashing down onto the pavement. Eponine managed to snatch up the notebook with the tip of her fingers. "Where'd he go, tell me now!"

Gavroche scowled, and crouched down to recover his precious cargo. "Dunno. Some ways towards the Southside. Poor chap."

Eponine ignored her brother, eagerly opening the book. She stroked the binding as if it was a beloved pet, squinting hungrily down at the words. Abruptly, the colour drained from her face and she closed it, not unlike the way Gavroche had done so before. He mistook this for her agreement on Marius's writing skills.

"See? I tolds ya. Now let's go…"

Eponine clutched the notebook to her chest. "No. No, I can't. I…I have to…"

Without warning, she dashed off into the street, prompting carriage drivers and pedestrians alike to skid to a halt, shout angrily after her, or do both.

Gavroche sighed, yanking his cap back down over his hair. So much for that. Who even knew when Eponine would next make an appearance. Now it was already past four in the afternoon. Soon all the other kids finishing school would be out selling…and it would be even harder to get rid of his own papers.

Upper East Side was home to fancy ladies and gentlemen who wrinkled their noses at the scruffy, dirty child with the newspapers. Just as one particularly austere, formidable woman finished giving him a look so cold that it almost gave him chills in the summer, Gavroche was surprised to hear a soft voice exclaim from behind him.

"Papa! Look at that newsboy. Isn't he darling?"

Turning around curiously, Gavroche found himself blinking up at a girl who seemed to be around Eponine's age. She was dressed demurely in sensible shades of grey, and her glossy chestnut curls framed a sweet, round face. A face that was smiling, genuinely smiling at him.

"Good afternoon! May I purchase a newspaper, please?"

Not accustomed to such courtesy, Gavroche stared at her, open mouthed. Beside the girl stood an elderly man, who looked as dignified and wise as his daughter was gentle and fair.

"What's your name, boy?" she asked again.

Gavroche swallowed his surprise. "Gavroche. But they calls me Urchin…"

He handed the girl her paper, and received another lovely smile in response. The man rummaged around in his waistcoat pocket. "This should do," he said, dropping a silver coin into the young boy's palm. The two surprise customers started to move away while Gavroche gaped at it.

"H-hey, mister!" He frantically skipped after the pair, struggling to keep the rest of his load in check. "'S only a penny a pape! An' I don't got enough change for half a dollar! Sorry, mister!"

In his haste, the newspapers once again slipped out of his arms and onto the sidewalk. Gavroche dove down to collect them again, and was shocked to find himself eye to eye with the elderly gentleman once again. He scooped up all the papers in one swoop.

"Very well. It seems that I too am lacking the proper change…why don't I buy the rest of your stock, then?"

For the second time in fifteen minutes, Gavroche was speechless. The girl laughed and turned to the kindly old man in amazement. "But papa! What shall we do with thirty newspapers?"

"There shall be one for you, and one for me. For the rest, let us visit the fishmonger, perhaps he will find a use for all this…" He nodded towards Gavroche before walking away, a faint smile hidden in his silvery beard.

Our plucky streetwise hero couldn't believe his luck. He'd gotten rid of his burden and received top payment for it – at the same time! This was indeed a day of singular rarity, from receiving a decent meal to actually making a profit. Perhaps there was actually some higher power up there.

He allowed himself to get swept up in the hustle and bustle of busy people rushing past him on the streets. It was finally time for all the factory workers, store owners and business powers to close up shop and go home – or for others, to begin their later shifts to make ends meet. However, one small salesman felt free as a fish, with coins clinking in his pocket like a promise.

It was when Gavroche had returned to lower Manhattan when he spied the children. Two boys, of perhaps the ages of four and seven, were crying pitifully in the doorway of a bakery. The stocky, red-faced proprietor was shooing them out with his broom.

"Scamps, and tricksters!" he growled. "I'm not falling for any of your sob stories, d'you hear! The tales, these days! From these vile street urchins…"

Gavroche's ears prickled irritably at the last word. The boys looked genuinely terrified and upset. Turning confidently on his heel, he marched right up to the disgruntled baker.

"Oi, fatman! Who d'ya think you are, scarin' liddle kids like that!"

The baker sniffed in disdain. "Get lost, all of you."

"Not 'til we gets our top scoff!" The two boys stopped weeping and watched their saviour in awe. "Don't you treat yo' customah wiv a face like that, mind ye! I'm a rich man today, I am."

The baker's expression changed when Gavroche held up his silver coin in triumph. "Hmph…alright, then. But be quick about it. Keep your hands to yourselves!"

He stomped inside, the three children following quickly. Boldly stepping up to the display, Gavroche examined the bread carefully.

"That's right, give us the best 'uns! None o' that day-old crummy crap, but teacakes and pastries! Don't ya recognize yer princes when you sees 'em?"

Ignoring the frivolous demands, the baker dropped three small, plain buns into a paper bag. Gavroche gasped in indignation.

"What! An' no sugars! Youse gots some noive, mister! Well, I'll tells ya that you ain't getting' no more business from me again. Whatta ripoff!"

Snatching up the paper bag, he marched out of the store with his nose in the air. His new wards scurried after him like docile puppies, eager for food. Once outside, Gavroche turned to them.

"An' whats with you lot? Pampered sorts. Spotless shirts an' all that too. Yer mama's got no eyes to lose two spick'n span brats like youse. Here, stuff yer gob wiv this."

The children took to the bread ravenously, so Gavroche divided the last portion between them. After all, he'd had a very full meal already. The older boy tried to explain their situation to him as he chewed.

"We went home after school, just as normal…but mama wasn't there. We waited and waited, but she never came. Since there was no food in the flat, we tried to go looking for her. But then we got lost and couldn't find our way back…"

Gavroche yawned and stretched his arms. "You an' every pampered sort in New York. Nevah walked anywheres without mama, I bets."

The boy frowned slightly. "I bring my brother to school…but we always take the same route, since that's the safe way…"

His younger brother, having demolished the buns quickly, suddenly began to cry. "And we're all alone, now, with nobody to turn to. The rats will come out and eat us!"

Gavroche blinked down at the distraught children, surprised. "Hey! What are ya talkin' about, kid? I'm right heah!" He reached out and seized a tiny hand each.

"This city can be a big an' scary place, that's true. But don't ya know you be talkin' to the real king o' New York? That's right. We newsies know the streets. If ya follow me, I can show youse all the best parts of this town! C'mon!"

He began to drag them down the street, chattering away excitedly. The gas streetlights beamed down on the unlikely trio.

"First thing: we're gonna go see a show! Ya know Medda, the Swedish Meadowlark? Boy, can that lady sing likes her knickers on fire! You bet we'll get in ta-night, an' I got a great hidin' spot up in the balcony. Maybe we can even swipe some candy for our viewin' pleasure! How does that sound?"

* * *

It was nearly eleven when Gavroche led the children out of Irving Hall. The two little boys had never experienced anything so exciting or liberating than this before. Though his younger brother was exhausted and had to be carried by Gavroche, the older child was beginning to worry again.

"We don't even know our address to get back to. How can we go home?"

Gavroche struggled with the weight of the child on his back. "Goin' home? Naw, I'll takes ya to the Lodgin' House. C'mon, pick yer feet up!"

As they rounded the corner onto Duane Street, Gavroche spied two figures still playing on the sidewalk in front of the Lodging House. Pie Eater and Bumlets, never bereft of energy, performed somersaults and cartwheels down the front stairs. Bumlets froze when he noticed his friend with the new recruits in tow.

"Oi, Urch! When did ya turn into the Salvation Army?"

"Shaddup, Bum," he remarked bluntly. "Picked up these kids. Get Kloppmann to write 'em down. I got the rent covered."

"Aww, you did join the Salvation Army! Whatta soldier, ain't he, Pie?"

"Just take the kid!"

Bumlets snickered, but accepted the sleeping child, and nodded towards the other to go inside. Pie Eater slapped Gavroche on the back as they also headed through the door.

"Good ta have ya heah, Urchin. We newsies gotta stick together, ya know?"

Gavroche shrugged. Though later, he had to admit that sleeping on a mattress was a big improvement to the cold, hard ground.

In the morning, his two rescuees continued to tag along with his every move. The other newsies laughed and mocked him about this new acquisition, but Gavroche accepted it all begrudgingly. It helped when Jack Kelly passed him at the sinks, slipping him a knowing wink.

After meeting the nuns for breakfast, Gavroche herded them towards the _World_ building. The young boys' eyes opened wide as they took it all in: boys, from children to teenagers, roughhousing and shouting gaily, getting in line to purchase their newspapers. They looked so confident. They looked so mature.

When his turn was finished, Gavroche pulled them into a corner, and handed them fifteen papers each. He hefted his own bundle onto his shoulders. "Now," he told them sternly, adjusting the stack. "Rule number one."

"Headlines don't sell papes. Newsies sell papes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


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